appearances. They should be in seclusion and relatively safe. But tomorrow evening, even those Cardinals ordinarily protected by their bureaucratic remoteness will be available to anyone who wishes access to them for whatever reason.”
“We shall join you in that prayer.” said Koznicki.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me,” Toussaint eased out of the booth and stood, “I will be on my way.” He checked his watch. “I must go now to meet my first contact.”
After a hasty farewell, Toussaint left the restaurant.
Koesler sipped the effervescent Asti.
“I don’t suppose I ought, but somehow, after listening to Ramon, I feel sort of relieved. At least now we know who is responsible, as well as the motive.”
“That is,” Koznicki responded, “if all our theories are correct.”
“You doubt the conclusions Ramon reached?”
“Remember, Father, I have been in this business long enough so that I’ve learned to keep an open mind on everything. Everything! It was that open mind that led me to give ear to Toussaint in the first place. And it is that same open mind that will not close off other hypotheses that could be just as possible as the ones we have proposed.”
“Gee, I don’t know. It all sounded very logical to me.” Koznicki’s skepticism was contagious. Koesler felt his sense of confidence waver. “Whether or not he gets this list, I feel encouraged that Ramon will be with us and close to Cardinal Boyle.”
“And I will be right there beside him.”
Koesler turned to look directly at the Inspector. “You don’t trust Ramon!”
“Things are seldom what they seem.”
Once a Cardinal is created the Pope plants a metaphorical ecclesial magnet in the man. A magnet that keeps drawing that Cardinal back to Rome.
At the drop of a red hat, the Pope can call a consistory, which is a solemn meeting of Cardinals convoked and presided over by the pontiff. The death of a Pope, of course, summons the Cardinals into conclave to come up with a replacement.
And the Cardinal is symbolically given a Roman parish. He becomes titular pastor of said parish. From that point on, he may do as he wishes with said parish. He may treat it with benign neglect or take a paternal interest in it.
His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle was about to take symbolic possession of St. John XXIII parish near Monte Mario. It was Saturday, May 3, early evening of a soft Roman spring. At 6:00, there was still plenty of daylight.
This was to be the final ceremony of the ceremony-filled week. At the conclusion of this rite, all the newly created Cardinals would be free to leave Rome. If, indeed, as was the case with most, their actual assignment was somewhere in the world beside the Eternal City.
The usual buses that had ferried the tourists from one event to another had done it again. Except that now, for the first time, all the buses of all the tourists from all over the world were not all going to the same place. For the first time this week, each Cardinal was going his separate way. And wherever each Cardinal went, his entourage was sure to go.
Many in the Detroit contingent felt exposed to be alone with each other rather than rubbing shoulders with Germans, Dutch, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and even Californians, Missourians, and New Yorkers.
St. John XXIII was a comparatively recently constructed church, just as St. John XXIII was a recently canonized saint. But somehow, everything in Rome, even recently constructed buildings, seemed old. It was almost as if Rome’s antiquity were infectious. As yet, St. John XXIII church had not fallen victim to Rome’s communicable dry rot, but there was every indication that it would.
One lesson immediately learned was that the Detroit contingent by itself did not come close to filling this church. The second lesson was that either the parish had not properly publicized this ceremony or that its parishioners were not crazy about going to church more than once a week. It was clear from all the recognizable faces that no one was present but Detroiters.
Koesler and the Koznickis were seated about midway from the front of the church. Organ music was playing softly. Koesler was gazing absently at Joan Blackford Hayes. As he had already observed, she did resemble Elizabeth Taylor so it was pleasant gazing at her.
“How are you coping with our water shortage, Father?” Koznicki asked.
Koesler emerged from his daydream. “Not very well! When I saw that sign in the lobby this noon that due to construction work outside, the water would be turned off for a few hours, it never entered my head that by the time we left this evening, it still wouldn’t have been turned back on.
“You have no idea of all the things you depend on water for until you lose it. Not only washing, showering, and drinking, and brushing your teeth—but flushing. I can’t believe we’re paying to stay there—they should be paying
Koznicki, smiling, shook his head.
Funny, thought Koesler, how easy it is to get used to talking in church. In the good old days, talking in church had ranked as a very common venial or lesser sin. He could recall when, as a young boy, each of his confessions had included many disobediences and not a few talkings in church. Must be some sort of hangover from times past, he thought. It’s still rare to see people talking in church. Generally, even when nothing is going on in a Catholic church, people—even whole families—just sit there, saying nothing.
But not in Rome. St. Peter’s resembled more a noisy museum than a church. And even here, in the more typical setting of a parish church, nearly everyone was talking to someone—albeit softly. He wondered whether silence in church would be a thing of the past for these pilgrims once they returned home.
He looked at his watch. 6:20. Funny, too, how you could get used to things starting late. It had taken less than a week in Rome to be infected by that
Koesler’s stream of consciousness ran low and then out.
Suddenly, he was thrust back into reality. The soft dreamy organ music faded, to be replaced by strong, full- powered chords. Everyone was brought to his or her feet. It was the processional.
All turned to the rear of the church to view the entrance of the procession. Instead of candle-bearing and cross-carrying acolytes, an elderly priest was jumping up and down, waving his arms frantically. Obviously a false start. But the choir sang on as the congregation had a good laugh.
“You were saying. Inspector, that Rome is a walking, talking cinema verite?” said Koesler.
They chuckled.
Shortly, the choir director, who was himself searching for the missing procession, caught sight of the leaping monsignor. The singing stopped and the organ returned to soft, soporific music.
Gradually, lulled once more by the soft meandering organ music, Koesler’s mind slipped into neutral. He had drifted even beyond the innocent contemplation of Joan Blackford Hayes into shimmering recollective montages of quiet, peaceful visits to various small churches of the past.
His head began to nod. He had almost dozed off when he was abruptly jarred wide awake. Someone had slipped into the pew and knelt next to him. It was Ramon Toussaint, in lightweight black suit and roman collar. An ordained deacon, Toussaint was as entitled to wear such clerical garb as was a priest.
At one time, not that many years before, Catholic clerics were seldom out of uniform. Many were uniformed at all times except bed, bath, beach, or golf course. With a few sensible exceptions, Koesler was of that school. Most current younger priests were seldom in uniform. Some, reportedly didn’t even own a black suit, let alone a roman collar.
There was no doubt that Toussaint was a striking figure of a man. And that was especially true when in
